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Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
"The Sunset Hotel. Room 351. Try and stay a while," - Johnson's tip-off for the week.
Johnson opened the door to find a naked woman on what he initially mistook for some sort of exercise equipment. As he moved closer he saw that it was no ordinary equipment. The woman's torso - with a blue stripe down her back - was tied on a flat bench, angled slightly above the horizontal. Her legs dangled freely, sleep having knocked them off the perches intended for her feet. Protruding from two circles at the back of the machine were dildos that were lodged - fairly firmly it seemed - in her pussy and ass. They glistened in the light. Johnson touched one of them, and his fingers were instantly sticky. He tried to rub it off on his coat but afterwards his fingertips still slid over the camera when he tried to hold it.
Resorting to using his other hand, he moved further round. At the other end was a similar dildo in her mouth, with a small amount of drool - or was it lubricant - running down her cheek. She was blindfolded and had ear-protectors on. She appeared to be dozing, in a lighter sleep than the victims usually were. Her arms were tied to the machine, pulled vertically downwards from her body. Johnson began taking pictures; this scene was worthy of a lot of them.
Johnson jumped back as suddenly the whole thing moved. The wheels at the base of the dildos began spinning, pushing the phalluses in and out of the woman's three orifices. The woman jerked awake as she was pounded from all sides. It was only then that Johnson discovered the power cable running from the base of the contraption. He followed it to where it was plugged in - through a timer switch. It appeared to have been set to begin at 5am, and turn on and off alternately every fifteen minutes. It was now just turned 8am. The banner above the bed summed it up: 'SLEEP WELL?'. She must have been drifting to sleep each time during fifteen peaceful minutes before being rudely awakened by the machine fucking her, which it would have continued to do for the next quarter of an hour. Johnson took more shots of the machine in action before turning it off.
"Please," the woman said, muffled by the dildo in her mouth, "just make me come. I don't know why you're doing this to me, but just make me come. Just touch my clitoris. Please."
Johnson froze. It was an unexpected request like something in a fantasy; a helpless woman begging him to make her come. He considered obliging her but knew that he shouldn't. It felt very wrong, for a reason he couldn't place. Instead, he sighed and removed her ear-plugs.
"I'm afraid I'm just a reporter. I didn't do this, I'm just the one that found you."
"I don't care who you are, I just want to come. Please make me come," the woman pleaded. Johnson saw a golden opportunity.
"If I make you come, can I put a picture of you in my magazine?"
"Yes! Anything!" Tom Johnson walked behind the desperate woman, his usual impassive reporter demeanour suddenly gone. There was something very sexy about the way the top dildo was nestling between her buttocks that was sexy in a totally different way to the dildo below that splayed her labia wide open. He ran his hands down over her ass and down her thighs. "Please, don't tease," the woman told him. He relented and slid his middle finger under the dildos and onto her clitoris. He started rubbing backwards and forwards. The woman began moaning. He rubbed faster and faster and suddenly her whole body started bucking despite being tied down. She came, moaning and groaning loudly as he pleasured her.
When she had stopped shaking, he untied her.
"That was quite embarrassing," the woman said as she stood. "Not every day you find a woman begging like that is it?"
"I wouldn't worry about it - I've seen some pretty odd things during the past few weeks."
"Well, thank you for my.. relief anyway. I'd been wanting that for the past goodness-knows-how-many hours. So how did you find me?"
"I had a tip-off."
"So you're going to put my picture in the magazine now?"
"If you'd rather that-"
"No, fair's fair. I got what I wanted; you should have what you want. It might be quite fun to be an anonymous celebrity - you will block out my face though won't you?"
"Of course, yes."
"Thank you."
The next magazine went out without a follow-up story. Johnson began pouring over the previous photographs, and going through his notes, to see if he could figure out the crimes, or if he had missed any details. Every time, the hotel receptionists had only ever seen the victim, if they had seen anything at all. None of the victims remembered a thing, due to their drugging. The victim always had a blue stripe on them, and always had a blue-paint-on-white-paper banner on a wall. As Johnson looked through the pictures he noticed that the banners had been written slightly differently each time. He hadn't noticed it before, but with all the pictures together the difference was more obvious.
The reporter tried to think of any other differences. The victims were mixed gender and sexuality. Some had been shocked, some less so. In fact the woman under the ice had not really been shocked until she had seen the banner. That was a little odd, as was the attacker wanting the pictures from Johnson. The attacker was there - he could have taken them himself; the excuses he gave as to why he hadn't were surely bogus.
Johnson looked again at the banners. They were all written differently - why? If the attacker wrote them all, it didn't fit. It was as if the victim had written the banner. It was possible - none of them would remember it, but why would they write up what was about to happen to them? If they knew what was coming, why would they go through with it?
They wouldn't remember why in the morning; they would have to cope with the humiliation and embarrassment without remembering what happened. The man with the condoms would not know which of the choices on the banner was true; he would have to cope with the lack of knowledge, forced by the drugs. The ice woman would not remember her anal virginity being taken. The last woman would have been woken up by dildos that she didn't know anything about.
No-one had ever seen the attacker. The attacker needed the pictures. The banners were written differently.
What if the attacker wasn't there? What if they weren't attacks?
Johnson ran the scenario through his mind. If the attacker wasn't there, they must have done it to themselves. Tied themselves up, painted the blue stripe and the banner, taken the drugs... It didn't fit - how would they all know to paint the blue stripe and banner, which drugs to take? Unless they were coordinated - by the man on the phone. He would have posted them the drugs, told them to paint the stripe and the banner. He would only have been able to tell them all the details the day of the incident; otherwise they would remember why they were there the next morning. So they arranged it all themselves, then wiped their memory of doing so. Only the coordinator knew, so that he could phone Johnson, who would turn up and free them. The perfect 'crime'. But why?
Johnson flicked through the crimes. The first woman - with the taped dildos - and the second woman - with the ring gag - would both be found in a compromising position with an embarrassing message. That seemed stupid - unless they liked humiliation. After all, if they did get off on being humiliated, it would be the ultimate humiliation. Found by a stranger - a reporter no less - in a humiliating position with a very personal humiliating message, with no idea how they'd got there, and not sure whether they had been raped or not. Similarly, the gay man would be found thinking he had engaged in a particularly dirty practice, while also having his sexuality revealed to a total stranger.
The ice woman would think that she had lost her anal virginity - she had, but presumably not to a man; maybe a dildo instead? Her expertly crafted torture must have been of her own devising; she must have had some secret pleasure in being subjected to it. Perhaps the reason that she wasn't initially shocked was that she thought that she had tortured herself but forgotten - until she saw the poster. Maybe if she knew that she would never have fucked her own ass - except of course, that she in fact had done so - she would believe that someone else had tortured her - a better fantasy than doing it herself? Johnson's mind was spinning as he rattled through the 'victims'.
The man with all the anal devices and the embarrassing message was a case like the first three; humiliation. The last man had used the memory-blanking to his advantage, leaving him wondering if he had had sex with another man (against his sexuality) rather than a woman as he would want. Presumably all the condoms had contained his own come. Finally the last woman had left herself to be fucked by a machine, denied orgasm completely until she was forced to beg for one from a total stranger.
Case solved, Johnson realised. The magazine could not print it of course; they would lose face on a massive scale. Johnson did not even tell his editor.
Johnson did not receive another tip-off in any of the weeks to come, but he always wondered if the 'crimes' might return again in some form. Until then, the blue stripe case was closed.
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